Children of the Heavenly Father
by momma2boys
Summary: What if Gustave Daae were Christine's first husband, not her father? Re-envisions the Phantom's story in modern times. Began with a joke to myself, "The Phantom and the Soccer Mom." Fortunately, it has become so much more than that. Set in present day Philadelphia and Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
1. Chapter 1

_**This is my first published fan fiction. Hopefully, I haven't committed any major faux pas. Mostly ALW, especially the Royal Albert Hall version with a little of Leroux thrown in. Chapter titles are taken from the Swedish hymn,**_ Children of the Heavenly Father_.** If you don't know it, there is pretty good version on YouTube if you search for**_ JDSB tryggare kan ingen vara . _**This is the closest I can find to what is in my head for Christine and Gustave performing it. (There are lots of big choir versions out there, too, if you'd rather.)**_

Chapter 1: Though He giveth or He taketh

Erik wasn't sure how that man had inserted himself into Erik's life. Erik wasn't sure he approved. However, Erik did not seem to have a choice.

Erik ran a newsstand in a quiet corner of 30th Street Station. His customers either came upon him purely by accident, lost in the giant neoclassical structure, or purposefully, drawn by his eclectic selection of reading material. The accidental customers gratefully picked up a station map, mints, chocolate, or a bottle of water. His regulars bought the obscure periodicals focused on music, architecture or science that he stocked. Students and professors from Penn, Drexel, or the Curtis Institute were grateful for good reading as they caught trains to New York City or Washington DC. As socially awkward as he and always in a hurry, they made their purchases without making conversation or even looking at him. That was just the way Erik liked it.

But then there was that man. He was always rumpled and sometimes carried a large artist's portfolio along with his black messenger bag. He usually bought the City Paper and two packs of orange tic-tacs, "for my boys," he'd say jovially. Erik never replied, he never replied to anyone if he could help it. But one day that man pulled out his cell phone and showed Erik a picture of two blonde-haired boys, arms around each other, smiling for the camera. "Aren't they great? This is Peter and this is Kurt." He leaned his arms on the counter, disturbing a pile of station maps and timetables. "I'm Gus. Gus Daae." He shoved his phone back in his pocket and extended his right hand. Erik took the solid, callused hand in his own slender one. "How do you do?" he replied, keeping his face turned slightly to the right, looking up from under his hooded sweatshirt with his left eye. Erik found the man's openness disconcerting. "Your children are beautiful."

"Thanks. They take after their mother, thank goodness," he chuckled, running his hand through thinning sandy brown hair. "I didn't catch your name."

"Erik," was the crisp reply.

Still clasping Erik's hand, Gus placed a warm hand on Erik's right arm, looking him in the eye and smiling broadly. "Erik. Great to meet you. Have a great evening." Gus slipped the paper and the candy into his messenger bag and ambled away.

Erik's face flushed hot. He busied himself straightening up the counter. What an idiot, he thought.

A few days later, Gus was back. This time, he had a violin case slung on his back. It was a good hour before the afternoon commuters would show up, much earlier than Erik had ever seen Gus in the train station. Gus caught Erik's eye. "Do you mind if I set up here? I figured you were a music person."

"Fine." Erik replied. Busking was quite allowed in the train station. Who was Erik to protest? He hoped the idiot could play decently. As much as he loved good music, he detested the bad or poorly played. He busied himself tidying up the already impeccable newsstand. He refused to be caught showing any interest in this idiot. When the idiot began to play, however, it took all of Erik's resolve not to stand, transfixed. First Gus played a simple, almost cloying tune. Erik recognized it as familiar, but couldn't quite place it. In Gus's hands, the simple melody soared through their corner of the immense marble station. That was followed by another folk tune, new to Erik, with a light pizzicato refrain. As he continued to warm up, Gus played familiar American tunes, including a rendition of Pop! Goes the Weasel when a harried mother with a stroller walked by. The toddler holding her hand plunked her little bottom down and refused to move until Gus played through the tune twice. As the station filled with tired people heading home, Gus switched to uptempo Bach and Mozart pieces. Finally, as the rush trickled to an end, he played gentle adagios. Erik was reluctant to close up shop before he stopped playing. Gus finished playing just as Erik locked the metal gate that protected the newsstand Erik turned, clicked his heels and clapped. "Bravo. You play very well."

"Thanks. I don't perform much these days. Playing is good, but what's the point if no one else gets to hear it?" Gus hesitated, "Could I...I mean would you mind if I did this again sometime? The city doesn't want us busking for money, so I can't really split the profits with you, but..."

"No need. The music is payment enough. It would be my pleasure." Erik spoke briskly, turned and was gone almost before Gus could answer with a thank you.


	2. Chapter 1 continued

Erik waited all the next day for Gus, but he never appeared. He did show up the following day, just before the afternoon rush.

"I hope this is ok..." he started.

Erik held up a hand. "It will make the afternoon go by more quickly. Please, be my guest."

And thus began the relationship between Gus and Erik. Every day or two, Gus stood in a corner near the newsstand and played his violin through the afternoon rush. Erik would have the City Paper and two packs of orange tic-tacs ready for him when he finished. Any conversation tended to be one-sided since Erik did not have much practice in that particular art. Gus, on the other hand, was quite affable. Erik learned Gus's opinions on music, politics, and food. The fact that would change Erik's life was that Gus was married to his high school sweetheart, Lotte.

"We grew up together. Small town. I have to admit I didn't really notice her until I was a senior. She was just a sophomore, only 15. She got the lead in the spring musical. Boy, were there a lot of pissed off girls at school that spring." Gus chuckled. "We did _The Sound of Music._ She was Maria, I was in the pit orchestra. I forever in trouble- first chair and I kept missing cues because I couldn't take my eyes off her."

"We both came here to Philadelphia for college. Or I came here and she followed me. I wanted to go to Curtis, but my father convinced me to go to Temple instead. I majored in graphic design and minored in music. Better to have a useful career, you know."

Erik cleared his throat. "Pardon me, but that seems like a waste. You are a gifted musician."

"Thanks. Music is what keeps me sane, but designing graphics pays the bills these days. Before the boys were born..." Gus sighed. "You should hear Lotte sing. We used to play the clubs and coffee houses back in the day. Thought we might even get signed to an indie record label, you know? But then Peter came along. Lotte refused to keep performing. She wants the kids to have a normal childhood, whatever that is."

"Trying to recreate her idyllic childhood, is she?" Erik scoffed.

"No, no, nothing like that. Her childhood was pretty unsettled. Ended up being raised by her grandmother and great-grandmother. If she had her way, we'd move back to their farmhouse in Lancaster County. She hates the city. Not much call for graphic designers in farm country, though. So she teaches music to preschoolers and I sell my designs to assholes in fancy suits." Gus shrugged. "I couldn't live without her, so what else can I do?"

"What does she think of your busking career?" asked Erik.

"Oh, she has no idea. She'd kill me if she knew." Gus hung his head, blushing. "I just can't help it, though."

Erik nodded. Gus reminded him of an addict. Jittery when he arrived each afternoon, Gus slipped into a blissful state as he played. He came to the station more and more frequently, staying longer and longer into the evenings. Erik understood the pull of music. He had also found solace in melody, counterpoint, and harmony.

Erik thought if he were to have a friend, he could do much worse than Gus Daae. His passion for music was appealing, certainly. In addition, he never questioned the gray sweatshirt that Erik wore, hood up, every day. If he noticed the leather mask that covered the right side of his face, Gus never mentioned it. Perhaps he was too caught up in his own life to notice, perhaps he didn't care. The reason was of little consequence.

Later, Erik was to think of that last afternoon as "that fatal Friday," which seemed odd at first, until he was reminded that in J.M. Barrie's_ Peter Pan_ Mr. and Mrs. Darling referred to the night Peter Pan came as that fatal Friday. If only it had been a page from a children's story and not what it was, at least for Gus. Erik could not quite wish the whole thing away. Somehow, it felt like a gift, a redeeming gift from a God who had otherwise ignored him.

On that Friday, Gus was playing an improvisation on what seemed to be a melody by The Clash. Unseen, Erik arched an eyebrow and listened with interest. Gus found inspiration everywhere. A group of students, heading off to a weekend in New York, came to the stall, stocking up on magazines and candy for the train ride. As Erik was ringing up the final sale, the great marble station shook. One of the students screamed. Another supposed that somehow there had been a wreck on one of the platforms below. Another tremor shook them all, followed by a deafening sound. Smoke and dust billowed from nowhere. The students fled, joining a sudden stream of people. Erik grabbed the cash drawer from the register and stuffed it into a shopping bag. He started to follow the stream of people, now assisted by SEPTA guards, but first he looked back for Gus.

The wall behind Gus had disappeared. In its place was a pile of rubble. At first Erik though Gus had already run, but no, there he was, crawling towards the newsstand. Erik ran to him and tried to help him up. Gus screamed in pain. Erik helped him to the newsstand and sat down beside him. His left thigh and leg were awkwardly twisted.

"I think my leg is broken," said Gus.

"I would agree. Hang on. Help is sure to be on the way," answered Erik.

"My phone..." Gus tried to reach into his pocket but shied away from the pain. "Could you? My phone?" He pointed to his front pocket.

Erik reached in and pulled out Gus's phone. Gus took it and made a call with shaking hands. Erik was surprised when Gus laid the phone on his lap. The picture on the phone showed a young woman hugging Gus's sons. "Lotte," it said.

Gus had set the phone on speaker. "Gus?" answered a woman's voice.

"Hey, darling. I'm having trouble getting home. There's been an accident."

"Oh my God, Gus! Where are you? I'll come get you. Are you ok?"

"Lotte, honey. Just stay put. I'm at 30th Street...there was an explosion. I just..."

"Gus? Gus?"

"I'm here. I just wanted to hear your voice. I think this might take...a while."

"Ok. Ok. I'm here. Gus?"

"Lotte? Lotte, it hurts. Would you sing?"

"What? Are you alone?"

"No. We're waiting together. I'm ok. It just hurts and I have to wait..."

Softly at first, singing came through the phone. It took Erik a phrase or two to realize she wasn't singing in English. It was the same folk tune Gus had played that first afternoon. "Tryggare kan ingen vara...Än Guds lilla barnaskara...Stjärnan ej på himlafästet...Fågeln ej i kända nästet..."

Erik felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. Even through a cell phone, the purity, the beauty of that voice shot through him. He wanted to cry and throw up and sing all at the same time. This was Gus's Lotte? This was the woman who had stopped performing in public? This voice, this perfect, beautiful voice...Erik wanted to own it, to bend it to his will. He wanted that voice to sing his music.

As Lotte sang, Gus picked up the phone and held it to his chest. The singing was muffled, but still audible. Lotte had finished the first song and started another, "As we go marching, marching, In the beauty of the day..." The soprano voice pierced Erik to the very core. Gus groaned faintly.

The singing stopped. "Gus? Honey?"

"Don't stop, please," Gus sighed.

Lotte began singing again, "For they are women's children, and we mother them again..."

Erik closed his eyes to concentrate on the voice coming from the phone. Selfishly, he longed to make Gus show him the picture of his wife. He wanted, no, he needed to see the face belonging to that voice.

Something beside him moved. Erik roused himself from his reverie enough to realize that Gus had slumped over the leg that was broken. That must hurt, he thought. Erik reached over to pull his friend upright. There was no response. Gus was hard to move, a dead weight. Quietly, so as not to disturb the voice on the phone, Erik knelt beside Gus and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he gently laid his friend down on the floor.

Carefully, he slipped the phone from Gus's hand. The voice on the phone said, "Gus? Gus?" Erik pushed "End Call" and slipped the phone into his pocket as he walked away.


	3. Chapter 2

**Here we go with chapter 2. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. As before, I am inspired by ALW and Leroux.**

**And their sorrows all He knoweth**

**The Philadelphia Inquirer May 18, 20-**

_Center City-Explosions rocked Center City yesterday when a bomb exploded outside 30th Street Station. The historic station is SEPTA's main railroad station and the third busiest Amtrak station in the nation. It was the target of the worst act of domestic terrorism since the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. The FBI and Department of Homeland Security have traced the explosion to a rental truck parked adjacent to the station in metered parking near the Amtrak drop off zone. _

_At this time, no one has claimed responsibility for the bombing. The explosion rocked the 75-year-old marble Art Deco station during the Friday afternoon commuter rush.., The bomb was detonated at 5:15 p.,m destroying a large portion of the station as well as the adjacent Cira Centre. Portions of the Schuylkill Expressway were damaged by debris and remain closed at this time. Market Street is closed from the Schuylkill Expressway to 32nd Street; 30th Street is closed from Arch Street to Chestnut Street. Amtrak and SEPTA services will be interrupted throughout the weekend until alternate routes can be determined._

_Initial reports indicate 150 fatalities. An additional 68 people were taken to area hospitals. Reports are still coming in as the excavation of the site continues..._

__Christine Daae's hands shook as she pasted the newspaper clipping into the scrapbook's pages. It had taken her a year to unfold that edition of the Inquirer and cut out the horrible front page article. She was doing this for the boys...for the boys...the boys would want to know, later. She turned to the first page of the book. There she'd pasted the earliest picture she had of herself and her husband, The faded Polaroid picture showed a tall, thin man surrounded by a dozen or so children dressed in their Sunday best. The sign behind them read Grace Lutheran Church. Christine let her eyes linger on the tallest boy, his sandy hair blown by the wind and falling into his eyes. Her Gus. She'd been in love with him, even then. She found herself, nearer the front of the group. Her auburn curls were pulled back from her face. Her dress was prairie-styled with puffy sleeves and a ruffled hem.

The tall man was a Very Important Theologian from Sweden, a visiting professor at the seminary in Gettysburg. He'd come to give the sermon that Sunday and the children had been taught to sing a hymn in Swedish in his honor. She still remembered standing up in the choir loft with the rest of the children and singing, "Tryggare kan ingen vara..." The Very Important Theologian, sitting in the front pew, had turned sideways to see behind him into the choir loft. He'd dangled his long legs over the side of the pew and thrown his head back, laughing and singing along in delight. Her eight year old self thought he must be a very kind and gentle man to act with such happy abandon. She knew full well what her grandmothers would have done had she acted like that in church.

When the hymn was finished, the theologian stood and applauded them before the service continued. During the long stretch of nothingness as the congregation slowly made its way to the altar for communion, the two boys on either side of Christine got into a game of "punchies." She tried very quietly and politely to make them stop and then she tried making herself smaller but nothing worked. The game got more intense and she started getting punched, too. Tears welled up in her eyes and she gripped the skirt of her dress.

Suddenly, from the pew behind her, strong arms gripped each boy's collar. "You will stop right now," a voice hissed in a whisper, "This is church and you will act like gentlemen. You. Do. Not. Want. To. Mess. With. Me." Wide-eyed, the boys put their hands in their laps and stared straight ahead.

A hand, gently now, tapped Christine on the shoulder. "Lotte," he asked, using her family name, "are you ok?" She nodded, smiling to herself. Gus Daae. Handsome, strong Gus Daae had saved her.

She'd been baptized Christine Charlotte Lindgren in that very church. Christine for her Grandma Anderson, her mother's mother and Charlotte for her Grandmother Lindgren, her father's mother. When she'd gone to live with Grandma Anderson and her great-grandmother, Astrid Valerius, she'd become Lotte. Grandma Anderson was Christine. Since little Christine would not answer to Chrissy or Christy, names of which Great-Grandmother Valerius did not approve anyway, they called her Lotte. And so she was Lotte at home and Christine at school.

Now there was no one left to call her Lotte. Her grandmothers had passed away before the boys were born. Her few close friends had moved away. Since she had no siblings or cousins, Gus had been the last one. Gus had been the last one to know her secrets. To know how she longed for a house with a mother and a father and brothers and sisters, to know how she had crept up to the window in the attic to read fairy tales when she felt lonely, to know how strict, scary Great-Grandmother Valerius would hold the sobbing Lotte at night and tell her about the Angel of Music who visited good little girls who practiced their scales every day and went to church every Sunday.

Christine closed the scrapbook and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, Enough. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She stood up and pushed her chair under her desk.

"Boys," she called, "come on, it's time to go."

* * *

It was one of those perfect spring days in Philadelphia. The sun sparkled on the Schuykill River and a light breeze ruffled cherry blossoms and new maple leaves. Sitting on the stage outside of the newly reconstructed 30th Street Station, Christine wished that she'd worn sunglasses. Her eyes hurt from squinting into the bright afternoon sun. Kurt and Peter were on either side of her. Nine-year-old Peter sat ramrod straight, eyes ahead. Only his wiggly foot betrayed his nervousness. Kurt, who had just turned seven, leaned on her arm, hiding his face from the crowd before them. Christine barely heard the speeches from the mayor and the governor. She managed to clap for the Vice-President, but had no idea what he'd said.

Then it was her turn. Someone from the mayor's office was introducing her. "On behalf of all the victims of this terrible tragedy, on behalf of the families left behind, we have a musical tribute by Christine Daae, wife of Gustave Daae, one of those we lost in the bombing."

Shaking, Christine rose and walked to the microphone that had been set up for her. She held her sons' hands tightly. She could do this, she thought. She had to do this, for Gus.

She adjusted the microphone slightly and managed a shy smile. "Thank you. This is the first song I ever sang with my husband. It gives me comfort that I want to share with you."

She sang a cappella in her pure, clear soprano.

Tryggare kan ingen vara,  
Än Guds lilla barnaskara,  
Stjärnan ej på himlafästet,  
Fågeln ej i kända nästet.

Children of the heav'nly Father  
Safely in His bosom gather;  
Nestling bird nor star in Heaven  
Such a refuge e'er was given.

Erik stood in the crowd, watching her. The breeze blew her wild curls from the loose knot she'd put them in. In the sunlight, her chestnut hair had auburn highlights, shining, bouncing, asking to be touched. He longed to smooth back the curls that blew across her face. She wasn't distracted, however; she kept on singing.

Ingen nöd och ingen lycka,  
Skall utur Hans hand dem rycka,  
Han vår vän för andra vänner,  
Sina barns bekymmer känner.

Neither life nor death shall ever  
From the Lord His children sever;  
Unto them His grace He showeth,  
And their sorrows all He knoweth.

He held his camera with its powerful telephoto lens up to his eye. There. Now he could see her. A heart-shaped face, a long slender neck. She was reaching down...she picked up the smaller boy who nestled his face into her neck. And still her voice never faltered. That voice. He'd waited a year to hear that voice again. It filled his soul, lifting it to heights he'd never imagined.

Se Han räknar håren alla,  
Som från deras huvud falla,  
Han oss föder och oss kläder,  
Under sorgen Han oss gläder.

Though He giveth or He taketh,  
God His children ne'er forsaketh;  
His the loving purpose solely  
To preserve them pure and holy.

Yes, yes, she was pure and holy. An angel. An angel of music. He would find her. She would be his angel of music. He would never forsake her.


	4. Chapter 3

**Sorry to have taken so long. This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write. I knew what needed to happen to move the plot forward, but it just wouldn't flow. Reviews and constructive criticism always welcome.**

**Nestling bird nor star in heaven**

Christine sat in the farmhouse living room, amidst boxes and more boxes. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and sighed. Home. She was home, in her house. It had taken nearly a year, but she had given up the lease on the Philadelphia row house and moved back to Lancaster County. Mrs. Giry, the local real estate agent, was none too pleased to lose the handsome commissions she had made renting it out to vacationers and such when the Daaes lived in Philadelphia. Now the city was too full of Gus. He was the one who loved the city. Here, in the rolling farmland, Christine felt at peace.

The white clapboard house was the one she had grown up in, the house that had sheltered Andersons since before the Civil War. It was a hodge-podgey sort of house, added on to and modernized many times over the years. Black shutters bordered the windows. The porch floor was a soft gray. Just like when she was a girl, scratchy coir mats sat outside each door ready to scrap off dirt and mud. A shallow, well-shaded creek ran along the eastern border of the property, near the old summer kitchen. An old wire fence marked the back of the property, beyond which generations of Lindgren rams had spent their summers away from that farm's ewes and lambs.

Inside, some of her grandmothers' things; her things, really, were still here. The old hand-colored photograph of Clarence, an uncle or distant cousin-she could never remember which, hung at the bottom of the stairs. He'd gone off to fight in World War I and died in France. His mother, along with other Gold Star mothers, had sailed to France and brought back a set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers. They held pride of place in the corner china cabinet until Great-grandmother Valerius gave them to her as a wedding present. Christine reached into her purse, where they had traveled, wrapped in a kitchen towel, on the drive from Philly. The corner china cabinet stood empty and could use a good dusting, but she opened the doors anyway and placed the little pink and white shakers in their rightful place on the middle shelf, carefully aligned so that one shaker appeared in each of the two center panes of glass.

She turned from the dining room and walked into the sunny kitchen. It took up the entire width of the house so that the window over the kitchen sink looked out onto the front porch and the road while the back door opened out into the backyard. That door burst open now, admitting two muddy boys.

"Mama! Mama! There's a creek and there were minnows and we saw a beaver dam!" announced a breathless Kurt.

"It is not a beaver dam, it's just some old sticks that got stuck on the rocks," corrected big brother Peter.

"Is too a beaver dam, isn't Mama? Just like in Narnia."

Christine smiled at her sons. "I'm not sure without looking at it. We'll take a walk down there later, I promise. Now, take off those muddy shoes and socks before you track mud all over the house. Maybe you ought to take off those wet jeans, too. We can look for dry pants upstairs."

Upstairs, the boys flopped on mattresses in the middle bedroom, giggling and wrestling.

"Are you sure you two want to share a room? There are enough bedrooms-you can each have your own," asked their mother.

"I want to be with Petey!" answered Kurt in a babyish voice.

"We need to be together," agreed Peter solemnly.

"Okay. I'll have Mr. Buquet put your beds together in here tomorrow then."

"Um, Mama?" asked Peter.

"Yes?"

"This room is pink." He pointed to the faded pink wallpaper striped with daisies.

"Yes, darling, I know. But this is the biggest bedroom. Besides, all the rooms up here have kind of girly wallpaper. We'll go to the hardware store soon and you two can pick out a color you like."

Later that evening, the three Daaes lay in the old-fashioned double bed in Christine's room. Christine was reading_ The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_ to the boys.

"Read the part about the beavers, Mama, so Peter will know I'm right."

"Yes, Mama, and then use your phone to find stupid Kurt a picture of a real beaver dam."

"Shhh-both of you. Lay still and listen so you get sleepy. We have a lot more unpacking to do in the morning."

She started to read again. "Kurt, darling, lie still!"

"I hafta pee."

"Well, then go to the bathroom-we'll wait for you."

Kurt slithered out of the bed and padded across the hall.

"Mama! Mama! I'm lost!"

"Kurt, the house isn't that big..." Christine threw back the covers and went out into the hall to find her son. The little boy stood with his hand on the doorknob of an open door. A musty odor wafted on cool air into the well-lit hallway. A few feet of unfinished wooden floor and stone walls could be seen before darkness took over. Kurt stood shaking, freckles dark on a pale face. With his other hand, he clutched his crotch in an effort to hold nature at bay.

"What is this?" he asked.

Christine smiled and sighed. "It's the bolt hole. I'd forgotten all about it." She shut the door and led Kurt to the bathroom further down the hall.

"What's a bolt hole, Mama?"

"Well, this house is very old, remember? It was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Have you learned about that in school yet?"

"I have!" Peter yelled from the bedroom. "It was for slaves to escape to freedom. Good people hid them in their houses."

"Yes, Peter, that's right. That door leads to a staircase that goes down through the basement and up into the summer kitchen. Someone could escape from the rooms up here down to the basement and hide in the summer kitchen if there was trouble."

"Cool!"

"Awesome!"

"And you two will stay out of it! Who knows what condition those stairs are in? I hope Mr. Buquet has some locksmithing skills. I'll add new locks to his list of chores."

Two very disappointed boys crawled back into bed with their mother.

"Please, Mama?" asked Peter.

"Yes, please, Mama? Can't we 'splore the hole?" his brother chimed in.

"Absolutely not. At least not until I have time to check it out myself. Now snuggle down. Where were we...?"

The next morning as the family was eating breakfast, a burly man in a dirty t-shirt appeared at the back door.

"Miz Daae?" he called through the screen.

"Yes?" Christine turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Joe Buquet. Toni Giry sent me over. Said you needed a handyman."

Christine walked across the kitchen and opened the door.

"Mr. Buquet. Thank you for coming. Yes, I need to have the boys' beds put together and I need some locks put on the old staircase that goes out to the summer kitchen."

"Call me Joe. That ol' summer kitchen's haunted you know. Ghosts of them old darkies..."

"Goodness. I lived here all my life and never heard of such a thing. Boys, put your dishes in the sink when you've finished eating. I need to show Mr. Buquet what needs to be done upstairs.

As Christine showed the handyman the beds in the boys' bedroom, she said, quite sharply, "Mr. Buquet, I do appreciate your willingness to work. However, I must ask that you refrain from discussing ghosts or using racial slurs in front of me and my children."

Joe Buquet smirked at the petite woman who stood in front of him. "Yes, ma'am." Christine realized that she was being humored but turned on her heel and started to leave the room. "If you have any questions, the children and I will be outside until lunch time."

Outside, Peter squatted at the edge of the creek, poking at the schools of tiny minnows with a stick. Christine pushed Kurt in the ancient tire swing.

"Mama?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Is the summer kitchen really haunted?"

"No, darling. I lived here with my grandmothers from when I was littler than you until I went to college. I never heard or saw any ghosts. In fact, we fixed up the summer kitchen into a little apartment for my Grandma Valerius. It was quite pretty. I think Mrs. Giry used to rent it out to summer people. She wouldn't be able to do that if it were haunted, would she?"

Kurt's face fell. "No. But ghosts would be cool!"

Christine laughed a light, happy laugh. "They would be interesting, anyway."

Her phone rang and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans.

"Hello?

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Giry. Yes, we are settling in nicely.

"Yes, everything seems to be in good order. Thank you for taking such good care of the place.

"Yes, Mr. Buquet is here. Thank you for the recommendation. I'm sure he'll do an acceptable job.

"Hmmm? The summer kitchen? Um, I suppose, I hadn't really thought..." Christine stopped pushing the swing and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She bit her lip as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Ok. I haven't even been...I see...Yes, I can ask Mr. Buquet to check it over for us. Did you give me the key?

"Of course you did. Right. Ok. Bye."

Christine shoved her phone back into her pocket and started pushing the tire swing again.

"Mama, what? What does Mr. Bouquet hafta check?"

"Hmmm? Oh, Mrs. Giry has someone who wants to rent the summer kitchen for a while. It would mean a little extra money..."

She shook her head and gave the swing an extra vigorous push. "Well, what should we use the money for, Kurt?"

Kurt held on for dear life as the tire swung out over the creek. He laughed. "Ice creeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"


	5. Chapter 4

**Such a refuge e'er was given**

Erik could hardly contain his excitement as he packed his belongings and prepared to leave his West Philadelphia apartment. He felt no great love for the place-it provided shelter only. His things, however, were precious to him. Nothing was obtained lightly or frivolously. Each item, from lampshades to pillowcases to his computers, was chosen with the utmost care. Everything must meet his needs as perfectly as possible. He knew that quality did not always mean the most expensive. Trendiness was something he never considered. Usefulness, beauty, harmony, those were the qualities he valued in his private domain. Therefore, deciding what to leave behind was difficult. Erik must keep up the appearance of a temporary tenant. He could, of course, retrieve the balance of his belongings when he was able to make a more permanent arrangement with his angel.

His computers, then, of course, must come with him. The electric keyboard would have to do-no one would believe that a temporary tenant would travel with a baby grand piano. He would loan his piano to the community center down the street. A piano must be played or it would be ruined. Perhaps another child would be saved by its music.

Which books? Music theory, voice techniques? Languages. He'd been learning Swedish. His angel sung her favorite him in Swedish. Classics, for her sons. Erik must be ready for his angel. She would need him, as he needed her.

He had found her! Such good fortune! Alas, when he found her Philadelphia row house a "For Rent" sign hung from the porch. That sign threw Erik into paroxysms of despair. Where would she go? How could he find her if she left the city? But Erik was, as ever, resourceful. Not only had he found her, but he would be living near his angel. A rental house on his angel's own property. He could see her whenever he chose. Of course, he could see her now, but soon it would be in the flesh...

What a remarkable coincidence. When his Christine moved away, he was distraught. How would he find her? So simple! All it took was a carefully placed phone call to the children's school. So sorry, hate to trouble, but he was the children's music teacher...he'd misplaced the new address...needed to send on some music...could the secretary help? Oh! Mrs. So-and-so! Young Peter had mentioned how kind she was...Flattery was a powerful tool, used wisely. It was almost too easy. A small town in the easternmost corner of Lancaster County. What drew his angel there? Of course, he remembered now-Gus told him she hated the city. She had flown home.

Another phone call, again, so simple. Such a small place had only one realtor. Hello? Giry Realty? Yes. He was Mr. Yedinak, recovering from surgery. He needed a small place really, something quiet, to rent for a few months, perhaps longer? He had thought of an apartment, even a room to let, never dreaming that a small house existed in such proximity to his heart's desire. Carefully keeping the excitement from his voice, he seemed to consider it. And then, it was done. He would move in a few weeks. One caveat. Surely Mrs. Giry could understand, he needed privacy after such extensive surgery. The family would need to be away from home the day he moved in. Could she please arrange it? He was so grateful; perhaps he could supplement her commission, just a bit?

* * *

Christine sat on the floor of the summer kitchen, now a tiny apartment. It was sparsely furnished-a kitchen table with chairs, a sofa, armchair, and double bed. The windows sparkled now, outside and in. The wooden floor was freshly polished. Meg Giry flopped down beside her.

"Really, Christine, you could have gotten Joe Buquet to do all this. I'm exhausted. My own house is never this clean."

"Thanks for helping, Meg. It's just that Mr. Buquet gives me the creeps. He's always leering and, well, he stinks."

Meg laughed. "Your standards always were too high, Chrissy."

Christine smiled but kept her thoughts to herself. One oughtn't judge, but really. She hadn't seen Meg in years, practically since high school. Now Meg was a single mother, never married to her son's father, and office manager for her mother's real estate firm. It was Victorian of her, but Christine still believed in falling in love, getting married, then having a family. Still, Meg seemed happy and Freddy seemed like a nice boy. He was Peter's age, full of energy, and a good foil for her oldest son's bossy moods. Kurt adored him as he did his own brother, perhaps even a little more. The three of them were outside now, playing. Boyish shouts and giggles floated in through the open windows on the summer breeze.

"You're right, Meg, I'm exhausted, too. It seems like all I've done for the past month is clean and unpack."

"What you need, Chrissy girl," said Meg, "is a spa day."

Christine laughed. "Right. Spa day in the middle of summer. Who would look after the boys? Or were you thinking that they need a spa day, too?"

"Look, I'll keep the boys for an afternoon. You go, get a haircut, a mani-pedi, maybe even a massage. You deserve it."

"Don't you have your mother's office to manage?" Christine asked pointedly.

"That's the beauty of working for Mama. If I need time, she gives it to me." Meg fluttered her eyelashes innocently. "Come on...it'll be fun. Oooo! Here-don't you need to disappear for a day while the new tenant moves in? Perfect timing! The mysterious Mr. Y moves in, you get pampered, your boys keep Freddy busy. It's a win-win-win!" Meg pulled out her cell phone. "When is Mr. Y moving in?"

"Meg! What are you doing?"

"There's this great spa in Kennett Square. Not over the top pricey, but great service, very pretty. I send Mama every year on her birthday.

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to make an appointment for Christine Daae. The Afternoon Delight Package-"

Christine grabbed Meg's arm. "What are you doing?" she squealed."

"One moment." Meg held her cell phone away from her face. "I am doing you a big favor, Chrissy. Now what's the date?"

Christine sighed. "July 1. Mr. Y moves in on July 1."


End file.
